


Haircare Tips for Zonerunners

by greedy_dancer



Series: Killjoys [1]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Killjoys, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Gerard hasn't looked at himself properly in a while. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Haircare Tips for Zonerunners

**Author's Note:**

> Written very early on, back when the Killjoys universe was the "Art is the Weapon" trailer and a couple of (misheard) lyrics. Written as comment fic for Turps, Teigh and Crazybutsound. This is for you, girls! ♥
> 
> With many thanks to Blindmouse for the beta.
> 
> Podfic by Crazybutsound available [here](http://crazybutsound.livejournal.com/783154.html).

Gerard hasn't looked at himself properly in a while.

It's not that the desert lacks mirrors. They make regular stops in diner and truck stop bathrooms, but those are urgent dashes to stench blood flow and sterilize needles and thread. They prefer kitchen sinks to dye each other's hair in, and he's too busy looking for dracs in the mirrors of the Trans-Am to check his reflection.

He knows his hair is getting really long, longer than is practical, but he's not planning on cutting it.

He still remembers the buzz of the razor, the taste of blood in his mouth as they pulled his head into place, fingers digging into his cheeks. Seeing the remains of Mikey's hair on the concrete. The scrape of the blades across his skull, the tickle of hair as it fell into his neckline.

He remembers even more vividly the clench of Frank's jaw when he'd seen them, beaten and bruised, blood crusted on their half-shaved heads. The way he'd disappeared at the next pit-stop, had come back with small cardboard boxes. He'd tossed them, his move too deliberate to be as careless as he wanted to make it appear.

Gerard had caught his. _Fire Truck Red_ , it said. He'd looked over at Mikey, who had held up his own gift, one eyebrow raised. _Trash Blonde_. Gerard snorted.

They wore their hair like flags, like targets. _Come and get us_ , it said. _You'll never catch us._

*

The next time he’s resting his head over the edge of a sink, Ray carefully combing through his hair and applying the dye, Gerard lets Mikey dip two fingers into the cup and draw them across his skin. Two lines across the underside of his jaw, where he's the most vulnerable.

He feels the dye running down his throat, underlining the ghost ache of hands crushing his windpipe. Ray's plastic gloves crinckle close to his ears. The smell of ammonia is overwhelming.

He catches Mikey's wrist, fingers the bracelet encircling the newly-healed bones. Mikey's wet bangs are falling into his face.

"Looks good," Gerard says.

"Course it does!" Frank calls. His voice echoes strangely. He's got his head stuck halfway inside a deep metal sink. He won't let anyone do his hair for him.

"Frank, please don't fall off your chair again," Ray warns. "We're almost out of disinfectant."

"Maybe if your kid hadn't been running around my chair, it wouldn't have happened," Frank answers.

"Maybe if you were taller, you wouldn't need to climb on a chair," Ray counters. Gerard and Mikey exchange an amused look.

*

In the beginning, Gerard would wake up choking, breathless and convinced he was still there, hands tied, gag cutting into his mouth. He’d start looking for Mikey before he was even fully conscious, scrabbling at the leather or the dust until his hand closed on Mikey’s skin. Mikey never sleeps more than a foot apart from him now, always within reach. Ray and Frank take turns driving when Gerard needs to sleep, Mikey sitting in the back with him, carding through his hair with red-tinged fingers.

*

Gerard is driving, everybody else asleep. It's dark inside the car, only the faint glow of the dials outlining faces, but he can make out Mikey sleeping to his right, and a glance in the rearview mirror shows him Ray, cradling his daughter even in slumber.

Frank's not sleeping, Gerard realizes. His eyes are open and so is his mouth, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the darkness. Gerard can hear his breathing, now that he concentrates, and it's fast, way faster than it should, fast like he's hurt or...

Gerard's face flushes, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens. He glues his eyes to the endless road stretching ahead, allowing Frank his privacy, pushing it out of his mind.

He doesn't let himself look for 15 minutes, and when he dares a quick glance in the mirror, checking for a tail he knows they can't have acquired, Frank's eyes are closed, locks of hair fallen across his face, his chest rising and falling regularly.

Mikey's awake though, and the look he gives Gerard is far too knowing.

*

The life of a zonerunner is not as exciting as the underground transmissions make it sound, thank fuck. Most of it is interminable drives and even longer periods of hiding, refueling, laying low and waiting for word from the Doctor. Stocking up on gov food rations, soda cans, ammo and hair dye. Mikey teaches the kid how to shoot a raygun. Frank reads months-old newspapers, handing the crossword page to Ray and saving the comics for Mikey.

Gerard watches, balancing on a chair, his back to the most solid wall he can find, his gun slightly loose in the holster strapped to his thigh. He’s never getting caught unaware again.  
Mikey is sitting cross-legged in the dust, explaining his wrist cuff to the kid. She’s giggling, and Mikey’s smiling, wide and unguarded, and it’s such an unusual sight these days that Gerard is startled.

He looks up to find Frank watching him, newspaper folded carefully. His dark hair curls around his ears, falls into his eyes. _Smoke?_ he mouths at Gerard, jerking his head towards the side door. Gerard nods and gets up, checking the horizon before following Frank outside.

He accepts a cigarette and Frank’s offered lighter. It’s an antique, one of those that run on gas. Gerard isn’t sure how Frank’s keeping it full.

“Your roots are showing,” Frank comments. It’s not what Gerard was expecting. He doesn’t quite know what he was expecting. They haven’t talked much, too long in the desert and too little water making their mouths too dry.

“What are you going to do with it? It’s getting really long,” Frank continues, and Gerard wants to laugh at the incongruity of the situation. Here at the end of the world, smoking, discussing hairstyles.

He shrugs, takes another drag, holds the smoke in his lungs like something precious.

“I got a razor at the last convenience store we passed, if you wanted,” Frank says, and Gerard swallows drily, because Frank knows, he _knows_. Gerard can’t say it, though, and he’s grateful for the cigarette because it’s a good excuse not to talk, a good diversion, something to keep his hands from going to his throat.

“I just thought I’d let you know, just in case.” Frank stubs his cigarette on the heel of his boot, pulls his shades back on. “Just in case.” He touches Gerard’s wrist, a brief, barely-there touch.

*

“You could, you know,” Mikey tells him, one of the days where life isn’t so quiet and they’ve just had a run-in with dracs that came out of nowhere and they’re clutching at one another on the backseat, reassuring themselves they’re still here.

Ray’s driving, foot to the floor, Frank riding shotgun and holding the kid on his lap. She’s sobbing quietly, Frank petting her head with gloved fingers, whispering something in her ear.

“Don’t deny yourself this,” Mikey adds in a low voice, and Gerard doesn’t even try to play dumb or contradict him. He watches Frank and thinks about how ridiculous it is that things like this didn’t stop with the world-as-they-knew-it, that there is still lust and confusion and desire in his life when there is also fear and death and unspeakable rage. It seems irreconcilable, and yet. Frank is wiping tears from the girl’s face with his thumb. His nail is bloody, half-torn.

“Life is not a symptom,” Mikey whispers. He’s got Gerard’s hand tight in his. “I hear the aftermath is secondary,” and there’s a sort of wild glee in his voice that makes Gerard want to grab him in a headlock and give him a noogie, like they’re still kids playing with plastic rayguns instead of real ones. Their toys were never this colourful.

“You’re our fearless leader,” Mikey continues with finality. Gerard thinks he's going to make it a joke now, but Mikey squeezes Gerard's hand and leans back on the seat, closing his eyes. “We need you sane.”

Don't you see this is the opposite of sane? Gerard wants to shout, but Frank has turned in his seat and there’s this gleam in his eyes from staring at the wrong end of a gun barrel, and Gerard suddenly knows Mikey’s right.

The aftermath is secondary.

*

The day they stop running, they stop at this abandoned diner. There’s a gov vending maching Mikey sets to vandalizing, and old gov food rations behind the counter.

The dracs have been getting closer. Zone surveillance turns up more of them every day. Korse has dropped in on Ladyboy and Dr D.; Gerard knows they can’t be far away.

It’s now or never, and there’s something liberating in the thought. Gerard grabs Frank’s gear, drags him to the kitchen at the back, finds a chair, sits down in front of the sink. Frank is watching him patiently.

“You’re right,” Gerard says. “My hair really is getting too long, and my roots are probably showing. Can’t have that, not today.” He closes his eyes then, because he knows his face is giving away too much and he can’t watch Frank’s. He can face Korse, stare death in the face, but he’s not that brave.

“Right, gotta look pretty today,” Frank agrees. “What were you thinking?” he adds, like they’re at a fucking hair salon. Gerard hears him rummaging in his duffel.

“Do the sides,” Gerard says. “Like when you found us. Leave it dark. Dye the rest. Motherfucking Fire Truck Red.”

Frank doesn’t comment. He just steps closer to Gerard, battery-operated razor in hand. Gerard focuses on the markings on his hands, his arms. Frank’s hands frame his face, his fingers touching Gerard’s temples before delving into the mass of his hair. Gerard shivers.

“Alright, alright. Just tilt your head this way,” Frank mumbles, guiding Gerard so slowly, so tenderly. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he continues, whispering. Gerard’s not sure he’s actually talking to him, just making reassuring noise.

Gerard grits his teeth when the razor starts buzzing, inhales sharply when it first touches him, so close to his ear. Frank’s hands are gentle, though, nothing like it was then. Gerard concentrates on the touch, the feel of Frank’s skin on his when he adjusts his grip, tilts Gerard’s head this way and that, clucking and muttering all the while.

“There,” Frank says after a while, when Gerard’s skull is tingling and his breathing is shallow. “Now the dye.”

Gerard watches as Frank lays out everything he needs, carefully. He puts his head back, leaning against the sink, the metal edge digging into the back of his head. Frank applies the dye with care, strand by strand. Gerard feels the air he displaces against his naked ears.

By the time Frank’s satisfied with his work, Gerard’s gripping the material of his jeans with one hand, the chair with the other.

“Open your eyes,” Frank says, and Gerard didn’t know they were closed. “Gee, look at me.”

He does. Frank’s face is inches from his, so close it’s blurry. Frank’s breath is hot on Gerard’s skin. Everything smells of ammonia. Gerard wishes he could smell Frank instead, Frank’s sweat, Frank’s breath. He tastes it instead, and the moment his lips touch Frank, Franks falls into his lap, folds into him.

The noise Frank makes when Gerard brings his hand to his face is heart-breaking. Gerard knows he might never hear it again, because they might all die today. They might be ghosted, they might be turned. They might be caught and tortured, they might get their heads shaved, Frank’s beautiful dark hair on cold cement. Gerard grabs a fistful of it, pulls it, bites at Frank for making him feel like this, on a day like this. He wants to cry, he wants to shout, he wants to shove Frank on the floor and rut against him like an animal and make him come and come on him, he wants to fall asleep and never have to wake up, he wants to kill someone and look into the sun until it burns his eyes.

He settles for spreading his palm across Frank’s face, thumbing one eyebrow, tracing the outline of his ear. He feels Frank shift on his lap, then draw back, dropping small kisses on his mouth.

“Wait, wait,” Frank is saying. Gerard’s not listening, he wants this now, there’s no time to wait, not anymore. “Gerard, fuck, wait,” and Frank is sitting back, taking deep breaths. “We forgot something,” Frank is saying.

Gerard watches as Frank leans forward, tries to lick at his throat, but Frank escapes him. He comes back into Gerard’s sight with the cup of red dye, dips a finger inside. “Let me?” he asks, hesitant.

Gerard bares his throat, closes his eyes, breath catching. Frank’s finger presses at his pulse point and draws the line up to his chin, back down the other side of his jaw. Gerard bucks up. No time, no time for this now, but god, he wants.

“We should get back,” Frank groans when Gerard starts running his hands up and down his thighs. “Fuck, Gerard, I really, really don’t want to stop this, but we have to go.”

“I know,” Gerard says, licking a stripe up Frank’s throat. “I know, fuck.”

“We’ll continue this tonight,” Frank pants. He takes Gerard’s face in his hands, makes him look into his eyes, grinds dirtily against his crotch. “Promise me, Gee. Tonight.”

“I promise, Frankie,” and Gerard knows he has to live. He can’t get caught, can’t get ghosted. He must come back so they can finish this, fuck, so they can _start_ this.

He tilts his forehead against Frank’s, draws his lower lip into his mouth, lets his teeth drag against it, so soft, so wet. “I promise.”

*

Gerard doesn’t _need_ to look at himself.

He’s got Mikey, and Ray, and he’s got Frank. Their faces tell him everything he needs to know.

He shrugs on his favourite jacket, straps the yellow raygun to his thigh. Watches as Frank ties a bandana across his mouth and Mikey grabs his lucky helmet. He smiles to the kid but shakes his head when she points at his mousehead helmet. Not today.

Today, he wants them to look him in the face. He wants them to see him as he blasts them back to hell, the red across his throat not like blood, but like a promise of things to come.

Life is not a symptom. Life is the cure.

*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) Haircare Tips for Zonerunners](https://archiveofourown.org/works/275087) by [Crazybutsound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazybutsound/pseuds/Crazybutsound)




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